Legacy
by moonlighten
Summary: Late Iron Age - 1707: Before she died, their mother made Scotland promise to take care of England. In England's opinion, he failed utterly in that regard. One-shot, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.


**Notes:**

Much kingdom confusion again, due to the dates...

As in Take Control, the first fic of the Feel the Fear series, at the beginning of this fic:  
Scotland – Ucheldir (Highland)  
Wales – Gorllewin (West)  
England – Dwyrain (East)

Scotland is also named Alba in the section set in 550, long before he would have taken that name, but as Pictland is a separate character in FtF, and England's later memories would be of an amalgam of earlier kingdoms, I've anachronistically used Alba to represent that.

Normandy, too, rather than France would have been present in the 11th century section, but I've used France there for the same reason

(Also, I've wanted to write a fic in this style for a long, long time... Hope all of this works!)  
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The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.  
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Late Iron Age**

Mama was good. Mama was always kind. Mama smiled to see him smile, she laughed when he laughed. Mama was a soft voice in the dark and warm arms that held him close when he awoke alone and frightened in the night.

But Mama is gone, Ucheldir tells him. Mama is gone, and she's never coming back.

So Dwyrain cries.

And _hush_ , Gorllewin says, but the arms that pull Dwyrain close are shaky and uncertain and cold.

And _hush_ , Ucheldir says, but his voice is scratchy and broken.

So Dwyrain cries longer and louder, and Ucheldir tells him _settle_ , and _be still_ , and _please, please, please be quiet; I don't know what you want me to do_.

Ucheldir paces; he snarls like a wildcat; he pulls at his hair and clenches his fists.

He slaps Dwyrain open-palmed across his face. No-one has ever struck Dwyrain in anger before, and the shock is even greater than the pain.

He doesn't know the word betrayed, but he feels it, because when Mama passed him to his brother, she'd told him, _Ucheldir will look after you. He will care for you like I do, and he'll love you just as much._

Dwyrain screams, then. He screams until his throat is sore, and all of his breath runs out. But Mama doesn't hear him. The hands that take tight hold of his shoulders are too rough and too awkward. They aren't comforting, at all.

"Sorry," Ucheldir says, and there are tears gathering in his eyes now, too. They're shining impossibly bright. "I'm so sorry, but—"

 **Circa 74 CE**

"—I have to go."

Ucheldir is poised to run: feet arched, legs bent, and the bunched muscles in his calves straining.

He would have run already, had not Dwyrain called out his name, and bid him wait a moment; just one moment so they could talk.

"You have to stay," Dwyrain says emphatically. Desperately. "You have to protect me. You promised Mama you would."

Ucheldir winces, but his expression very quickly smooths out into bland detachment once more. He looks almost bored. "That was a long, long time ago," he says. "Many things have changed since then."

What has changed is that Dwyrain's body aches all the way down to his bones, pummelled hard by the pounding rhythm of marching feet. His ears ring with the piercing alarm calls of the fae as they scream through the sky overhead, fleeing the approaching soldiers.

Every day, his skin burns ever hotter as Rome draws near, and the magic he stirs with his passing washes over Dwyrain in ceaseless, scalding waves.

There's nowhere left for him to go but northwards, into Ucheldir's lands, and Dwyrain cannot leave his people.

Ucheldir could stay, though. He _could_. He could fight for Dwyrain, and for Gorllewin, who has been encircled, brought to bay, and is trapped now in the West.

The grip of Dwyrain's sword fits his small hand ill, and the weight of his bow bends his back, but Ucheldir is skilled with the blade; skilled enough, perhaps, that he could engage Rome and emerge the victor.

"They have," Dwyrain says, "but I still need you. I'm still your brother."

A small smile briefly softens the terse line of Ucheldir's mouth. "Aye, and you always will be, but my people need me more. I'm sorry," he says again, and then he turns, and he runs.

A cold, hard feeling sinks down through Dwyrain's chest and settles deep in his belly. "You coward!" he screams after Ucheldir's retreating back. "I'll never forgive you for this, you—"

 **Circa 300 CE, Provincia Britannia**

"—bastard," Britannia splutters as Gallia dances away from him, giggling in delight at his own audacity.

He then waits for a moment before touching his hand to his cheek, giving their unseen observer time enough to drink his fill of Gallia's ridiculous twirling.

He has often felt the weight of his brother's eyes on him whenever he ventures this close to Rome's wall, and they're never heavier than when Gallia has accompanied him on his travels.

On those rare occasions Britannia has chanced to catch a glimpse of Caledonia, his face had been drawn tight by something that looked like hunger. He would like little better, Britannia thinks, than to leave the security of his wall and join them, but he will not. He does not dare.

He's fought Rome just as fiercely as Britannia knew that he could, kept his own lands and people safe, but he is still a coward in some ways. And this is one of them.

Britannia does not much like Gallia, and he certainly doesn't trust him - he's like a viper: glitteringly pretty, but sharp-tongued and coiled ready to strike at the merest of insults or even inconveniences - but he has him whilst Caledonia does not, which makes him precious, in his own fashion.

So when Britannia is certain that Caledonia is watching him again, he brushes his fingers lingeringly across the skin upon which Gallia had pressed his kiss - without so much as a by your leave or word of warning - and calls out: "Why don't you join us, brother? If you do, perhaps then Gallia might kiss you, too."

The air around Britannia thickens in answer, and crackles with the promise of magic. A warning, but no more than that. Caledonia, it seems, dare not strike him, either.

Britannia laughs. "You won't, will you?" he says. "You're too—"

 **Circa 550; Kingdom of Rheged**

"—weak," Alba says, sweeping Albion's legs out from beneath him and landing him on his back. "Just like our brother. It's a wonder either of you has lasted this long."

'And it's no thanks to you that we have,' Albion wants to tell him, but Alba plants his foot down hard in the centre of his chest, forcing out all of his breath.

Albion thrashes his legs, grabs tight hold of his brother's ankle and tries to push it aside, but all in vain. He can't shift him so much as an inch.

Alba watches his struggles with a bafflement that soon shades into disappointment. "I expect this of Cymru," he says, "but not you. I thought you had a bit of fire in you, at least."

Albion has plenty of fire. He burns with it, every part of him. But Alba had grown tall, broad-chested and well-thewed as he huddled safe behind his wall, and, for now, he's far too strong for Albion to overcome.

But Albion is growing, as well. Growing strong enough, he hopes, that some day soon he will be able to strike Alba down, mete out the punishment he deserves for all of his betrayals. Make sure he is thoroughly—

 **1070; City of York, Kingdom of England**

"—crushed," France says. "Your little rebellion is no more. I told you I'd get you on your knees, didn't I? And here you are."

England hadn't wanted to kneel before France, or his bastard king, but he hadn't had the strength to remain standing. He's lost too much blood, and the north is burning, his heart along with it.

There are ashes on his tongue, and when France crouches in front of him, he spits the taste out, direct in his face.

France just laughs. He grabs England's arms in a bruising grip, drags him to his feet and then kisses him. There's nothing of gentleness about it, only triumph and perhaps some degree of pity in the way he curls his tongue and swipes it lightly across the lips England refuses to open for him.

He quickly tires of that game, though, and soon shifts his hands to England's shoulders, holding him at arm's-length. "I will take good care of you," he says, and England hates him all the more for it.

He had been promised that before, and it came to nothing. He expects no better now.

Scotland, indeed, will probably be well-pleased by his defeat, and France's intrusion on his lands. They have been meeting together these past two centuries, at least, and are likely to do so even more frequently now that France will be so close at hand. Colluding with one another—

 **1295; London, Kingdom of England**

"—plotting behind my back," England says. "I told you they were, didn't I?"

"You did," Wales agrees placidly.

He does that a lot lately, which England is pleased by. Wales might never have been a turncoat in the same way Scotland was, but he had forgiven their brother for his desertion far too easily. England had come to hate him for that, just a little.

But no more, now that Wales sits at his table, and nods, and agrees that nothing good can possibly come from Scotland's damnable alliance with the frog. An alliance born of nothing more than their mutual desire to bring him to his knees once more, as far as England can tell.

Their mutual hatred of him.

"It won't last, though," England says, as much to reassure himself as Wales. "France is a snake, he'll turn on Scotland eventually, no doubt. And Scotland is—"

 **9th September, 1513; Northumberland, Kingdom of England**

—far too stubborn for his own good.

And where has it got him? Slowly bleeding out on a battlefield in the name of a borrowed cause; for a man who will likely never appreciate what he's sacrificed for him.

His king is dead, and Scotland himself is fading, his chest crushed and broken, his throat slit from ear to ear.

England stands over him - triumphant, bloody sword in hand - but takes no real pleasure in watching his brother die.

That had long since faded. Now he only feels a small measure of satisfaction, for once more having been given the opportunity to prove himself the stronger of the two of them, and the faint stirrings of pity.

He kneels down in the mud by Scotland's head and smooths the hair back from his brow."He probably won't even think to thank you for this, you know," he says.

Scotland makes a gurgling sound in response; completely unintelligible, but unlikely to be any sort of agreement, all the same.

England sighs, skimming his fingers down along the curve of Scotland's jaw to rest lightly against the point of his chin. "Was it worth it?" he asks. "Has it ever been worth what he asks of you?"

Scotland has thrown himself on swords at France's behest for centuries now, and England cannot see that he has benefited from it in any way. His people find work as mercenaries in France's armies, drink their fill of France's wines, but the kingdom himself scarcely looks Scotland's way when they're together, for all that Scotland fawns over him, and still fucks anyone who so much as looks at him twice behind Scotland's back.

England had never anticipated any more of him, but he supposes that Scotland must have. And, yes, he has come to pity him for that delusion of late.

They have years of strife behind them, and likely many more yet to come, but Scotland is, as he had promised so long ago, still his brother, and England—

 **1514; Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland**

—still cares for him. In some small way. Deep down.

Scotland still bears the scars from their battle, slow to heal due to his land's upheaval: his king but an infant, and his nobles squabbling amongst themselves as they contest for power.

He'd no doubt throw himself straight onto another battlefield at this very moment if France demanded it of him, though, and never mind that he can scarcely walk from one side of his chambers to the other without stopping to catch his breath halfway.

"You're pathetic," England tells him, because he needs to hear it now more than ever. "When he says jump, you don't even ask, do you? You just jump as high as you fucking can and hope it's enough this time. And it never is, is it? He takes everything you give him and still asks for more, and what do you get in return?

"He'd drain you dry without a second thought if he could, and you'd let him, wouldn't you?"

Scotland might hear him, but he doesn't listen. He never does.

He turns his head aside and ignores him, because Scotland can't bear to listen to the truth—

 **1696; Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland**

—or take good advice if it comes from England's lips.

Scotland's grand alliance is shattered, and France has turned inwards, curtailing the trade between their two kingdoms. Scotland's people are starving, their crops failing, and Scotland himself looks to be fading again.

"I could give you all the help you need, Scotland," England says, clasping hold of his brother's shoulders.

Allied, they would both be stronger than ever before.

But Scotland shakes his head, stubborn to the last. "I don't want your kind of help, England," he says, even though his skin is grey, all the flesh has fallen from his bones, and—

 **3rd May, 1707; Buckinghamshire, Kingdom of Great Britain**

—he's dressed in a patched coat and threadbare breeches. He looks like a beggar standing at England's door, hat in hand and come asking for alms.

This is it, at last. Scotland's kingdom is lost to him; he has had to submit to the union he has fought against for so long.

But England not only takes very little pleasure in that, but scarcely more satisfaction. It's a disquieting realisation. He had thought that this would be the culmination of everything; the long-awaited vengeance that would right the ancient wrongs that he had suffered at Scotland's hands.

He digs deep but finds only annoyance at the shabby state of his brother's clothing - scarcely fitting to wear to a celebration of their new union - and the stubbornly defiant jut of his jaw.

Perhaps satisfaction will come later, and joy and vindication and everything else England had expected to feel in this moment.

He bows down low. "Scotland," he says, forcing a smile he doesn't feel to his lips. "I hope your journey was uneventful."

The look of pure hatred Scotland shoots him in response to this does help, if only a little.

And England has time on his side now. He has waited for centuries; he can surely wait a while longer.  
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 **Notes:**

\- **Circa 74CE:** Between 60-78 CE, Roman governors continued the conquest of Britain by moving north.

\- **Circa 550:** Roman rule in Britain ended by 410CE. Rheged was one of the Brittonic-speaking regions in the north of England/Southern Scotland (Yr Hen Ogledd) during the post-Roman era and Early Middle Ages.

\- **1070:** Harrying of the North: campaigns waged by William the Conqueror in the winter of 1069-1070 to subjugate northern England.

\- **1295:** The treaty signed in 1295 by John Balliol (King of Scots) and Philip IV of France against Edward I of England is normally taken to mark the start of the Auld Alliance.

\- **1513:** Battle of Flodden, fought between the kingdoms of England and Scotland in Northumberland. War was declared on England by James IV of Scotland to honour the terms of the Auld Alliance and divert English troops from their campaign against Louis XII of France.

\- **1696:** One of the Seven Ill Years, a national famine in Scotland. It was caused, in part, by a shift towards protectionism in France, causing a slump in trade, and four years of failed harvests. This famine was one of the factors leading to the eventual union of Scotland with England in 1707.

\- **1707:** The Acts of Union took effect on the 1st of May 1707, and joined the Kingdoms of England and Scotland into a single Kingdom of Great Britain.


End file.
